


portrait of embers

by TheSSClexa



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Canon Universe, F/F, Feels, Lesbian, Lesbian Sex, Light Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Smut, that no one asked for, what if there was an intermission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24596425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSSClexa/pseuds/TheSSClexa
Summary: Marianne and Heloise rendezvous during the orchestra's intermission.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 87





	portrait of embers

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many FUCKING FEELS about this. 
> 
> Initial thoughts after my very first watch, I was disappointed there wasn't a clear happily-ever-after ending, however, after consecutive watches and immersing myself into everything POALOF including the director's comments and interviews, I now understand its poetic ending. And, I have massive respect for that. Therefore, I don’t consider this a "fix-it" fic because the movie is perfect. The story is perfect. 
> 
> This fic serves mostly as my interpretation that the ending involves the audience. We are part of the story. Considering, one of the main themes revolves around the eye of the beholder and it's my opinion, as a viewer, to be able to play a part in that, too. Since the ending is open (i.e. both characters are still alive), it welcomes viewer interpretation and imagination.
> 
> Alas, here's a version that I've imagined for the two main characters.

The red velvet curtains close for intermission and Heloise shuffles out of her seat the same way she entered. Across the balcony, scooting past those who prefer to wait in their seats to join a compliment of wine in the reception house.

It’s crowded and noisy, people are grouped together discussing the music, dissecting the four seasons—the movements of summer and autumn thus far. Heloise has no such luxury, she is here alone but bears no regret nor self-pity, grateful for this opportunity at the _Teatro Alla Scala_. Her life—her husband’s name and modest wealth—is accompanied by certain advantages, affording her more freedom than she anticipated, including this evening in the heart of the city to enjoy the orchestra on their opening night. As soon as she heard that the Milano symphony would be featuring Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Heloise purchased her ticket in advance and anxiously waited for months.

As she stands in line for a glass of red, Heloise senses the familiar feeling of being watched. She glances to her right, briefly scanning the faces and focused on the women when a soft brush of a fingertip across her left-hand stops her heart. 

Heloise’s gaze shoots left and she catches a pair of fleeting eyes, turning away and walking into the crowd.

_Marianne._

She’s wearing a light peach-colored dress with an embroidered design that shimmers in the light. Marianne’s dress flows in sync with each stride, a stride Heloise knows all too well, and the look Marianne gave her was one of invite. It puts Heloise on the chase and she immediately leaves the queue in pursuit.

Unexpectedly, Marianne picks up pace, which has Heloise pushing past people and weaving through conversations. It’s unladylike, but Heloise doesn’t care, unapologetically stepping on a few toes as she advances. And when Marianne reaches the top of a staircase, to Heloise’s surprise, she breaks into a mild run. Heloise pauses for a second, looking down a Marianne from the top of the stairs as she descends. Deep within, Heloise wants to scream for her, yell her name down the curvature of the staircase but her decency—or lack thereof—does have its limits and Heloise holds her tongue, watching as Marianne reaches the bottom and disappears out of sight.

Doubt befalls Heloise. Is Marianne leaving the theater? Running away and only wanted Heloise’s attention as a passing regard? No. It cannot be. The _look_ Marianne gave her; Heloise could never forget. It’s preserved well in her mind, the same image captured on page 28. She’s kissed it. She’s _known_ it.

Gathering her composure, Heloise makes her way down the stairs to the ground floor where the main foyer leads to the street and she peers outside. It’s quiet. Sleepy horses, parked carriages, and awaiting coachmen. They’re circled as if huddled around a fire, passing around a drink while puffing tobacco.

Marianne is not outside. Gradually, Heloise pivots, and there, under the staircase, is Marianne. Waiting. As soon as Heloise spots her in the shadows, Marianne pushes against a false wall and it opens into the skeleton of the theatre. It’s a stark contrast to the exterior, opulent and extravagant but instead, dark and raw with exposed architecture. Curtains and ropes fall from the ceiling as if they’re on a tall ship, sails and halyards and masts.

Following Marianne, Heloise continues to study her surroundings, gazing upwards at the endless ropes strung high toward the roof until she trips lightly over a sandbag. It’s then that she pays closer attention to Marianne’s footsteps, who seems to be navigating the below deck with ease. This is not her first time here.

“How do you know this place?” Heloise asks. Her voice echoes down the dim passageway, it slopes downward, and Heloise can feel the people above them. Their voices rising and falling like the forte and piano of an ensemble.

Marianne replies without turning. Her voice, though quiet, resonates cleanly through the muffled chatter and it sounds more beautiful than the music earlier.

“I’ve been here before,” she says. Her tone is sarcastic, stating the simple and obvious. It’s her style of humor and Heloise grins.

They walk the length of the theater, under the house, past the pit and into the trap room: the area directly under the stage where the orchestra is featured. It’s dark save for the stage candle lights leaking between the wooden floor panels and a rectangular outline of a trapdoor in the ceiling. The room, like the passageway, is unfinished and for a performance such as tonight’s, it doubles as a storage space. Loose props and stage furniture are adrift.

Here, Marianne stops and turns; they’ve arrived. For a long-drawn moment, they stare at each other between the lines of flickering yellow light. There are no words, only looks of study, of fondness, and love. The regard they once held for each still exists. Except Heloise doesn’t know what she’s waiting for, the shock and awe that Marianna is standing before her is paralyzing. Marianne is also frozen in place, perhaps in equal shock and awe.

Direct footsteps above interrupt their gaze and Heloise flinches slightly when a musician drags a chair into position. There’s more shuffling, murmurs and voices, the quick pluck of a chord until the conductor double-taps the baton commanding total silence. The stage is so quiet, Heloise worries the musicians will hear her heartbeat. It pounds fast and hard as if to leap out of her chest toward Marianne.

Heloise is wasting time and she knows it; they both know it. The moment is too opportune to remain so motionless and at the strike of the first chord of winter, they crash their lips together. It’s sloppy. Hungry and desperate. The music overhead is a flurry of snow, a blizzard whiting-out their sighs, but Heloise can hear Marianne’s moan into her mouth and feel her fingers around the base of her neck to bring them closer still. Twist and angle their heads to deepen the kiss, drinking each other in, drowning until they both come up for air. Gasping, they relish the moment by tipping their foreheads together until their lungs calm. Marianne runs a hand into Heloise’s hair, lightly combing her fingers through before she speaks.

“I’ve missed you,” Marianne says.

“I’ve missed _you,_ ” Heloise replies. She cups the underside of Marianne’s jaw to reconnect. The kiss is softer this time, much softer, a mere brush and Heloise kisses Marianne like this, tenderly from her lips to her neck. Heloise wants to take her time, move slow and savor every note like a rich wine, but each second gained between them is also a second lost. It weighs heavy on her and she begins to pull at the bottom of Marianne’s dress, tugging the layers of fabric up eager for access. Marianne helps by gathering them in a bunch all while Heloise crowds her backward until she bumps into a prop desk. It gives Heloise the leverage to tip Marianne back with an arm around her waist and the other, advancing up her thigh. She kneads at the skin, at its suppleness, progressing further between Marianne’s legs when she brushes past a curled thatch and finds Marianne’s warmth. It coats her fingers and Heloise gathers the wetness to draw softs circles with her fingertips. Overhead, the music blares of a winter storm while Marianne whimpers in her ear. Heloise continues to kiss her, circling her fingertips until she slips inside with a single thrust.

“Oh!” Marianne moans, dropping her head back and further tangling her fingers in Heloise’s hair.

Heloise lands kisses where she can afford, licking, sucking, and nipping at the column of Marianne’s throat. The memories surface, though their time was brief, has been a constant in Heloise’s thoughts and dreams. Countless nights spent replaying the past and picturing the impossible. Heloise will remember this moment, a moment so rare and beautiful, alongside the others. Their walks along the rocky shores, games and readings at the dining table, and fleeting nights by the fire, forever in Heloise’s head and heart.

While her fingers continue to glide in and out, Heloise leans up slightly to watch Marianne—memorize Marianne like this—with her chest heaving, mouth agape, and eyes closed.

“Look at me,” Heloise says.

Slowly, Marianne opens her eyes. They’re half-lidded, submerged in pleasure and fight to stay open. Heloise kisses her with gazes locked and heavy tongues. She sucks and bites at Marianne’s lower lip while thrusting faster. Marianne is close; Heloise can feel it. Marianne’s body is taut underneath her, inner walls tightening around her fingers, and hands fisted in her hair.

“Heloise!”

Marianne comes. Her orgasm overtakes her and she must close her eyes, burying her face in Heloise’s neck, moaning. Her body shakes and Heloise holds her tight. She doesn’t want to let go.

The music decrescendos and scales to a single violinist. A solo; the blizzard has past and what remains is a single falling snowflake. It swirls and dances in the air, weaves between barren branches along its traverse until it too, settles on a blanket of snow.

They catch their breaths, brush nose tips when Marianne reaches for Heloise’s hand at the wrist and brings it to her mouth. Heloise watches in awe as Marianne savors her own essence from Heloise’s hand, quietly suckling at her fingertips. She then draws Heloise in for a kiss. She tastes like summer. Of Brittany’s coast, ocean waves and salt spray. Of home.

The solo ends. It’s joined by a quartet; the ground warms and spring is on the horizon. Marianne sits up, wraps her arms around Heloise and spins them with Heloise’s back against the desk. She expects to mirror Marianne earlier, but no.

“Turn around,” Marianne whispers.

Heloise doesn’t turn her back to anyone, doesn’t like the positional vulnerability, except Marianne isn’t anyone but the sole person Heloise would give herself entirely to.

The orchestra returns measure-by-measure, and gradually Heloise pivots and plants her hands on the desk.

Marianne kisses the base of her neck and nuzzles into her ear. “I’ve thought of you like this,” she admits.

“Is that so?” Heloise smirks.

“Yes.”

The sound of spring in full bloom saturates the auditorium with bright sunshine and blossoming flowers. Butterflies are introduced by a flutist. Soon, they will have experienced all four seasons; the performance is coming to an end.

Marianne wastes no time and reaches for the hem of Heloise’s dress, bunching it up much like she did her own. She steps a foot between Heloise’s, parting her stance as she traces her fingertips up the backside of her thighs. Heloise shivers, goosebumps rise across her skin at Marianne’s touch. Despite the amount of time between them, Heloise’s body responds as if no time has passed at all. As if they were resuming another day in Brittany.

Marianne plays at her folds; Heloise is dripping. And despite the wetness that smears across Heloise’s inner thighs, Marianne continues a deliberate and teasing pace, dragging the length of her fingers up-and-down and up-and-down. How Heloise has missed her deft hands, smooth and sure strokes as if she’s painting directly onto her. Pushing back, Heloise aches for more—for Marianne inside of her. She rocks and grinds against Marianne’s hands until finally, Marianne presses in with a single twist of her wrist.

“Ohh! Mari—”

“Shh…” Marianne hushes, pausing briefly to give Heloise time to adjust.

The music is fading; spring has waned. Heloise must bite down on her own lip to keep from shouting and almost regrets taking Marianna first. Almost. Because all regret is lost when Marianne starts gliding in and out of her, plays Heloise like an instrument, commanding every movement and as soon as Marianne quickens her pace, Heloise comes undone. Her body shudders, nails rake across the desk, and that’s when Marianne cradles her jaw for a kiss, swallowing Heloise’s moans.

The symphony has concluded, the audience applauds, and the musicians stand for a bow. Heloise’s neck remains craned, kissing Marianne through the applause and slowly turns so they are once again, face to face. They continue to kiss, past the chatter of the emptying auditorium until the shuffling above abates and they are alone.

“I—I have a carriage waiting,” Heloise murmurs between kisses.

“I know…”

It’s Marianne who ultimately has the resolve to stop, placing a thumb on Heloise’s lips to quiet the moment. There’s so much to be said, to be asked and told, but both women are muted by the inevitable and to once again, depart each other’s company.

The row of candles on stage dims, individual flames reaching the end of their wick.

“Come,” Marianne whispers and links their hands. She leads them out a different way, through a side entrance that exits into a vacant alleyway illuminated by a half-moon in the night’s sky. “Your carriage is that way,” Marianne says, tipping her chin toward the main street on her right.

“And you?” Heloise asks and cups her face.

Marianne tilts her chin opposite, the street on her left.

Nodding, Heloise brings Marianne in for a final kiss. They part without another word, walking away from each other. When Heloise reaches the end of the alley, she pauses for a second before looking over her shoulder, smiling when she sees Marianne’s moonlit silhouette turn around for one last memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to address a couple of comment/questions for those interested in how Marianne is familiar with the inner workings of the theater. Recall in the movie when Marianne is speaking to the countess, that she had been to Milan before and speaks Italian. I imagine a situation where Marianne's father was employed by the theater to paint a backdrop set for a play, perhaps a mural. And, her father would bring Marianne with him (likely tasking her to help) where they would spend weeks in the backstage areas, painting, while the play rehearsed.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @fallenarke


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